


If You Haven't Yet

by OrchardsinSnow



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Brakebills (The Magicians), Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Oral Sex, Physics, Showers, Telekinesis, Undressing, of course Eliot wears an undershirt he's not an animal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-03-26 07:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19000867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchardsinSnow/pseuds/OrchardsinSnow
Summary: Eliot bent his head closer. When he spoke, his breath tickled Quentin’s neck.“Here’s something about disciplines. People use the word calling, sometimes. . . If I really pay attention, I can feel telekinesis actually calling to me,” Eliot said, whispering. “Things and bodies have wants. Like this spot here. It’s been screaming at me for ten minutes.”Chapter 1: Put Me in Your Dry DreamAt the last Physical Kids’ party of the year, Quentin complains he still doesn’t know what his discipline is. Eliot tries to help him tune in.Chapter 2: Put Me in Your WetIn Eliot’s bedroom, Quentin turns the tables.Chapter 3: Wrap Me in Your Marrow, Stuff Me in Your BonesIn the middle of the night, Eliot realizes he forgot something important. The next morning, Quentin proves he has some skin in this game.





	1. Put Me in Your Dry Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Eliot's telekinetic powers are underutilized, aren't they? I wanted to read a fic about that so I wrote this (send recs if you know of others!). Title and chapter titles are from the song _At The Hop_ by Devendra Banhart (who is Hale Appleman's vocal twin, by the way)

Quentin lifted the red plastic Solo cup to his mouth and tossed back the watery dregs of his drink. It hadn’t been a very strong drink. Now he wondered if he should have another drink. That would mean leaving his comfortable inconspicuous spot here against the wall and crossing the crowded room to the bar. And—this song. A banger, as they said. Nothing would be more conspicuous than not dancing, and he was . . . still terribly sober.

He considered _pretending_ like his drink wasn’t finished. Like he wasn’t just standing here against a wall doing literally nothing in the middle of the last Physical Kids’ party of the year, which even he knew was going to be remembered as the best party of the year. He’d vaguely hoped to find someone to make out with at this party, having heard the legends. Right now, he only felt foolish for imagining his luck would change.

In every shadowy corner of this party, and out in the open, too, couples and trios were hooking up. Groping. Grinding. Sharing long tender kisses and playfully teasing. He’d seen Margo escape to the sun porch with a healer and a potions expert trailing behind her. Alice was flirting hard with the obnoxious fire-dancer from the nature magicians’ treehouse. Even Todd had a second-year illusions person—a man or a woman, Quentin couldn’t be bothered to determine which—wrapped around him like an octopus.

Quentin gazed into his empty cup, swirled a last remaining amber droplet, tucked back a lock of his hair that was falling into his eyes. He felt the prickle of someone’s gaze on him, and when he raised his head again he was drawn like a magnet to the source of that gaze. Eliot Waugh.

Eliot Waugh, who basically owned the word _gaze_. Everyone knew he was telekinetic. That if he wanted you to close to him, he could make it happen. To his credit, Eliot didn’t use magic that way. It was enough to know he _could_. After so many years of knowing his power, of knowing it and handling it responsibly, Eliot’s confidence was ingrained. It was marked by a tiny fissure of pain, the way a snaking vein made rare marble that much more beautiful. Quentin, like everyone, was captivated.

And they were friends. There was that.

Eliot made the tiniest gesture with his head. _Come here to me._ A space on the luxurious sofa next to Eliot was miraculously empty.

When Quentin sank down onto the cushion, Eliot greeted him by squeezing his knee. It was the sort of gesture that would look like easy familiarity, and Quentin was grateful for it. He wanted to seem like he belonged at this party.

“Hey,” Eliot said.

“Hey.”

“End-of-the-semester blues?” Eliot took Quentin’s empty cup out of his hand, frowned at it, and floated it with precision into a bin across the room.

Quentin shrugged. “I’ve had an amazing year. I just . . . wish I had sorted some things out more clearly.”

Eliot nodded. “Your discipline?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Lucky guess. You’re feeling angst at the end of your first year. It’s fairly common to not know your discipline until second or even third year. Common, but still frustrating.”

“You knew yours earlier than that.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Quentin wished he could rewind them back. He twisted on the sofa to face Eliot, tucking one knee up. “That was stupid. Super stupid of me. I’m stuck in my own navel tonight, just ignore me.”

Eliot’s face was nothing but kindness. “It’s okay. Hopefully semi-accidentally killing someone won’t be the way you learn what your discipline is.” He smoothed Quentin’s hair back, his fingers strong. It felt nice.

Quentin widened his eyes and leveled a serious look at Eliot, punctuating his apology. Eliot nodded, acknowledging him.

“It will come to you eventually. In the meantime, you can do magic, which is amazing,” Eliot said. “I’ve seen you do some really good magic. You’re skilled, Quentin.”

“I’m trying to stay positive. But it just feels like everyone else has something special about them, and I don’t have anything particular that defines me.”

Quentin made a flopping hand gesture toward the crowded room full of people. Everyone was more dazzling, more memorable, more sure of themselves.

“I feel pathetic for even mentioning it. _Oh, boo, I just don’t sparkle_. Like . . . ”

“Quentin,” Eliot said. “We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Work with me here. Just indulge me.” Both of Eliot’s hands were in Quentin’s hair now, massaging his scalp. He tugged Quentin’s hair tie off. Eliot asked, his voice low, “What does everyone remember about the last Physical Kids’ party of the year?”

“Um.” Quentin swallowed. “The music. And the . . . drinks.”

Eliot gave him a stern look. Eliot’s hands, meanwhile, migrated to the base of Quentin’s skull. “You are holding a lot of tension here. Answer the question.”

“Who made out with who.”

Eliot nodded. Thumbs, kneading. “ _Whom_. But yes.”

“Asshole.” Quentin realized he was trying hard to keep his voice from shaking. And he realized Eliot could tell. The corner of Eliot’s mouth quirked up.

“Who made out with whom. Where. For how long. How good it all was. Hmm?”

Quentin blinked and nodded. He was dizzy with the feeling of Eliot’s strong hands at the place where his neck met his shoulders. Stroking. Where was the line between a friendly head/neck/shoulder massage and something else? The way Eliot was looking at him, it seemed like . . . just maybe. Quentin cleared his throat and put his hands on Eliot’s knees. Just rested them there.

In most of Quentin’s vague make-out hopes, Eliot had figured prominently.

“It just makes sense. All the cravings come out,” Eliot said, all too casually. “Once exams are over. And people know they’ll have the whole break to get past any awkwardness. Not that there ever is much. But, moreover—Physical Kids have a way . . . it’s easier if I show you.” Eliot was openly letting that gaze of his roam all over Quentin’s face, lingering on his mouth.

Quentin curled his hand around Eliot’s biceps, around the cleft separating the biceps and the triceps. He’d learned in anatomy that there was no such word as _bicep_ or _tricep_ —each arm had a biceps and a triceps. One muscle set for pulling closer, the other for pushing away. He knew the decision was his. He was wavering on the edge.  

“Is this happening?” Quentin said.

“You want it to happen,” Eliot said. There was no hint of smugness on his face. He was only curious, like he was working out a puzzle. Eliot cuffed his hands together politely at the back of Quentin’s neck. A symbolic pause button. “And yet—what?”

Quentin slid his hands up and covered Eliot’s hands with his own, prepared to pull those hands off of him if—if—“Not if you’re doing me a _favor_ ,” Quentin said in a rush, quietly.

“Oh, I see. No,” Eliot shook his head, cool and unruffled. His hands came alive again, fingers twining briefly with Quentin’s, then slipping up into Quentin’s hair. “I don’t do that.”

Quentin let himself sink into the feeling of Eliot’s hands—just a bit. His shoulders relaxed a degree. He saw Eliot feel it. The quirk of Eliot’s lips turned into a tiny smile. Eliot bent his head closer. When he spoke, his breath tickled Quentin’s neck.

“Here’s something interesting about disciplines. People use the word _calling_ , sometimes.”

Quentin stifled a moan when he felt Eliot’s mouth, soft and focused, on the super-sensitive spot below his earlobe. Then he felt Eliot’s breath in his ear, and Eliot’s thumb stroking that spot.

“If I really pay attention, I can feel telekinesis actually _calling_ to me,” Eliot said, whispering. “Things and bodies have wants. Like this spot here. It’s been screaming at me for ten minutes.” Eliot kissed him again in that same spot, and Quentin sighed.

“Oh,” Quentin said. Eliot wasn’t _wrong_. He forced his brain to follow the conversation. “Like—mind reading?”

“Mm. Nope. It’s physical. I don’t read minds, but I read bodies, and matter,” Eliot said. Quentin felt Eliot’s palm pressed to his breastbone, warm and solid through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “Maybe it’s your pulse? Not sure how it works. The same way that picture next to the staircase wants to be straightened . . . you want this.”

Quentin turned his head to look at the picture in question hanging crookedly on the wall, and watched as it squared itself. Or as Eliot squared it using his mind, apparently. And: this moment between him and Eliot here on the sofa was being noticed by various people in the crowd. He closed his eyes, feeling a flush of heat.

“You want this. And you want people to _see_ , which is hot.” Eliot’s mouth murmuring against his neck was almost more than he could stand.

With his head turned to the side, Quentin’s other ear was exposed to Eliot, and Eliot dipped close to brush his lips there and to whisper, “Some bodies want to be touched in a certain way. Or to feel a certain way. It’s like the energy gets lined up and all I need to do is give it a channel. My discipline means I can choose to help that process along. If I want to. And I do. Oh, this is gonna be fun, Q. Your body has a lot of hot spots.”

He felt a smile on Eliot’s mouth as Eliot traced a path across his neck, his Adam’s apple, the hollow of this throat. When he found the breath to speak, Quentin said, “You’re really good at this.”

“The more you want,” Eliot said, “the better I am.” _Jesus._ Eliot’s mouth was close to his again. His lips brushed Quentin’s, grazing, teasing. “I’m giving away all my secrets, for some reason.”

_What the hell am I waiting for?_ Quentin thought. He gave in and rose up to meet Eliot’s mouth, kissing him hungrily, swaying dizzily and doubling down when he felt the strength of Eliot’s response—a moan, a shock of wet tongue and strong lips, hot breath and a gasp of surprise. Here was a thing only a few people knew about Quentin: he was pretty good at this himself, once he got going.

Quentin basked in the feeling of Eliot’s enthusiasm, how sensitive he was, his fiery skin, his hands everywhere. The taste of him. The sheen of clean sweat that dotted his temples. He lost himself for a moment. Many moments, maybe. At some point he realized he was straddling Eliot’s lap, his thighs tensed. He felt his hands tangle in Eliot’s curls, tugging, yanking—god, was he _yanking_?

“Sorry,” he managed, tearing himself away. “Didn’t mean to—to pull.”

Eliot groaned, catching his breath. He smiled gently and shook his head, pulling Quentin’s hands back up around his neck. “Whatever you want. Don’t apologize. I won’t let you hurt me, even if you get carried away.”

Quentin blinked, doubtful.

“Okay,” Eliot said. “Try this.” He hooked his thumb into Quentin’s mouth, nudging his teeth apart. “Bite,” he whispered, even as his eyes hooded over from the heat and wetness of Quentin’s tongue.

Quentin narrowed his eyes. He bit.

“No, bite. I mean _bite_.”

Quentin tried. He could only apply so much pressure, no matter how hard he tried. Some gentle, invisible kinetic force was in his way. He registered that Eliot was allowing _some_ pressure. A surprising amount, actually. He dragged his teeth down the length of Eliot’s thumb.

“Good,” Eliot whispered, his voice throaty. “See? You can’t hurt me.”

“I’m starting to get the picture,” he said. “But I don’t know if biting is the best habit to get me into . . .”

For a brief instant, Eliot’s face went slack with surprise. “Do you—um. What?”

“I want to.” Quentin didn’t need to put his hand on Eliot’s belt, but he did it anyways, just to see the blip in Eliot’s composure again.

“Right,” Eliot said, blinking. “Me, too. But _that_ I don’t do in public.”

He flicked his eyes to the ceiling.

“Upstairs.”


	2. Put Me in Your Wet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Eliot's bedroom, Quentin turns the tables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kinda took a turn I didn't see coming, but who am I to kink-shame Eliot Waugh? I did my best, I hope I pulled it off!

Inside Eliot’s bedroom, Quentin pressed the door closed with his heel and a moment later heard the lock slide into place, even though both of Eliot’s hands were occupied holding the sides of Quentin’s face.

Quentin laughed into Eliot’s mouth.

“Sorry. Can’t help myself.” Eliot pulled back a few inches. “Sure you want this?”

“I’m sure. I do all my overthinking _before_ I grind all over a person and proposition them.” Quentin tugged on the front of Eliot’s vest.

“Good,” Eliot breathed. He leaned closer, sandwiching Quentin gently against the closed door, pressing kisses everywhere he found skin. His full long body rocked into Quentin’s—then stilled. Quentin could hear the sound of Eliot’s palms skimming the surface of the door, not touching him. Eliot spoke into Quentin’s shoulder.

“Just. What I said before, about knowing what a body wants. I’m not always perfect at it. And I can’t see _why_. So there are some things you’re going to have to tell me with words.”

Quentin tugged on the back of Eliot’s vest now. Eliot lifted his head and looked at him with cautious eyes. He always expected Eliot to shock him, but not like this. Eliot actually looked—not _vulnerable_ , exactly. But exposed. He was biting his lip. And offering this glimpse: Eliot Waugh, who ran the show when he knew the script, was flying blind.

Quentin stalled, absorbing this. He liked it so much that Eliot had said this out loud. _So, so much_. “Words work.” He tugged Eliot closer and smiled. “I can do that. You can be not perfect at something.”

Eliot smiled crookedly. He slid his warm hands under the hem of Quentin’s t-shirt and kissed him, soft and insistent.

“I’m a total slut for for anyone who kisses my neck,” Quentin said. “But.”

“Ehh, do we still say slut? Raise your arms above your head.”

“Only ironically.” Quentin raised his arms and felt his t-shirt fly off.

“And maybe not even then. Lift your foot.”

“Okay. I’m— _neck-kissing-positive_.” That was Eliot’s mouth on his bare shoulder, and those were Eliot’s hands making his abdomen ripple. Quentin lifted his foot out of his pants and boxers, which were crumpled around his ankles, and out of his sock, which stayed anchored to the floor.

“Better. But? And? I sense there’s more. Lift your other foot. Put this one down first.”

“But— _and_ —I like _you_. A lot. You’re kind and honest. I like the way you kiss. It makes me think something more would be fun, with or without telekinesis.” He hummed at the feeling of Eliot’s hands on his bare chest and lifted his other foot. He watched his remaining sock fly off and looked down at himself. “Did you just undress me with your mind?” Quentin nudged Eliot backward until Eliot’s calves hit the bed.

“Mm hm. Just to be clear, I don’t use it to move a person’s body. Ground rules. Just clothes and, like, the lube tube or whatever,” Eliot said, sitting down.

“What if I want you to, say, hold my hands down?” Quentin stepped between Eliot’s knees.

Eliot considered this, eyebrows and gaze darting toward the ceiling. “I’d prefer to use my own hands for that. Or my tie or something.”

“Noted. Speaking of your tie . . . which you’re still wearing . . . I guess using magic on yourself isn’t as fun as some other ways of getting undressed.”

“You picked up on that, huh?” Eliot’s voice had a reedy note of need in it.

“What was it you said—if I’m really paying attention, I might hear my discipline calling to me?” He cracked a smile. The only thing calling out to him was Eliot—Eliot like an ancient puzzle box with his complicated layers. Some of these layers he could manage. He knelt down between Eliot’s feet, enjoying the stunned look on Eliot’s face, and unlaced his two-tone spectator shoes. He eased the shoes off one by one, taking his time.

He stood up again, aware that he was visibly excited and, in contrast to Eliot, quite naked. He tugged the loose end of Eliot’s tie out from inside his vest. “Not that I think undressing you is my discipline. But, yes. I picked up on it.”

Eliot Waugh, looking up at him, was blushing. _Eliot Waugh was blushing_. Quentin remembered to breathe.

“This is a very exotic knot,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. This would take a minute.

“I can—” Eliot grasped at the fabric around his own neck with practiced fingers.

Quentin touched him lightly. “Keep your hands to yourself, please.” Eliot’s neck went a shade more pink. Eliot placed his hands flat on the bedspread behind him and squared his shoulders.

Quentin had never given a moment’s thought to the sound and feeling of silk slipping against silk, but he knew now it was one of his favorite things. When the tie was finally unraveled, he slid it out from under Eliot’s collar and tossed it toward the pillow end of the bed. He realized he hadn’t looked at Eliot’s face once while undoing the intricate knot, and he could feel Eliot staring, drinking him in. He could hear Eliot’s labored breaths.

He traced his fingers down the long row of buttons on Eliot’s soft linen vest. Blue enamel and brass stamped with an intricate pattern. He tried to see them as Eliot might see them: their cool smoothness, the patina left by an accumulation of touches over the years. Special because Eliot chose them. It was awkward, undoing buttons from this angle, especially the way his fingers were trembling, and the way Eliot’s chest was rising and falling. The vest’s bottom button was dangling before he even got to it. “Loose thread,” he said. “Tsk.”

Eliot made a noise like a cough, then cleared his throat. That was interesting. He filed it away.

Quentin slid the vest off of Eliot, then undid the button fastening Eliot’s shirt collar. He soothed the new patch of exposed skin there with his thumb. Collars were so irritating. Then the other buttons, and the cuff links—brushed brass—and the shirt hem where it was tucked in, and the belt buckle and fly. Ignoring his own quickening pulse and the urge to rush, he rolled the shirt off of Eliot’s shoulders, then tugged Eliot’s pristine undershirt up and off. The pants went last, with a few kicks from Eliot.

Now he dropped his hands to Eliot’s pale shoulders and just . . . admired. Above the waistband of Eliot’s silk boxers, his white tummy, _almost_ flat and heaving humanly in sync with his chest, made Quentin feel a surge of tenderness. The architecture of ribs beneath his skin. The place where his collarbones came together, with those teaser chest hairs that were forever taunting Quentin when Eliot wore an open-collar shirt. The dark recess of his mouth between parted lips. He felt Eliot’s arms begin to wrap around his back, felt Eliot’s body arching up, closer. When he met Eliot’s gaze, finally, _finally_ , he saw Eliot’s eyes were brimming with feeling and fiery desire.  

He rocked forward and rolled with Eliot onto the bed, finding Eliot’s mouth with his own—gasping, searching, braced for the bruising crush of lips and teeth and still not ready for the fervor of Eliot’s kiss.

“Are you real,” Eliot groaned, a fist tangled in Quentin’s hair. Eliot rolled them over until Quentin was on his back, legs trapped under Eliot’s legs, arms pinned by Eliot’s arms. Eliot bit and nipped and licked his jaw, his hammering pulse, his throat. “Are you serious.”

Quentin was aching, searching for friction or a slick sweaty glide of skin on sensitive skin—anything. He screwed up all the willpower he could find and said, breathless, “I’m not done yet.” He slid his hand under Eliot’s waistband and slowly, carefully, used his knees to nudge Eliot to lie face up.

He crawled backwards and dragged Eliot’s silk boxers down his long legs, his head spinning. He kneeled and wrapped his hand around Eliot. “I think I found the spot that wants to be touched,” he said.

“Smartass. Oh, you’re right, though. I’m. _Oh_.” Eliot gasped. “Mm.”

It was almost half the fun, putting Eliot on the back foot. Quentin smirked around Eliot’s cock, which unmistakably wanted something. And was getting it. He drew Eliot in, humming at the velvety skin that was made for his mouth.

“Uh. Forget what I said about biting or—whatever dumb thing I said. I can’t concentrate enough to—oh, God, Q. Oh. Is that okay? Touching your hair? I won’t—I’m too big to—oh, sweet lord. What. Because. How.” Eliot stopped saying words then. The room was full of the sound of his shuddering breaths and incoherent noises, mixed with muted dance music filtering through the floorboards from the party below.

Until, breathless and shuddering: “Don’t stop that. Oh, don’t stop. Or—stop that if you don’t want me to. But don’t stop. Oh, don’t stop.”

Quentin didn’t stop. All he wanted was the feeling of Eliot quivering under him, at the edge and then over the edge, seizing and loosening, the feeling of Eliot in his mouth, closer than close, _his_ to devour. His to take care of.

When Eliot finally went slack and boneless with a satisfying deep sigh, Quentin rose up gently, wiping his mouth on Eliot’s percale sheet. Eliot wrested him into a tight embrace, hot, heart pounding. All strong arms and chest, and exhausted, brainless kisses.

“I’m about to very rudely fall asleep,” Eliot said, sinking down onto a pillow, pulling Quentin with him. “But I’m coming for you in an hour or two. Just a nap. Oh, God.”

Quentin relaxed back into Eliot’s chest.

“Wait, break is starting. Are you leaving _very_ early?” Eliot lifted his head, looking affronted at his own poor sex etiquette.

Quentin laughed. “Relax. Sleep. I’m not going home for break.”

“Oh. That’s good. You’re not? Good.” He drifted off with the word _good_ halfway out of his mouth.

Quentin lay awake, Eliot’s heavy arm across his chest, reflecting. He thought about Eliot’s vest with the loose button. _May as well_ , he said to himself. He closed his eyes and stirred a finger in the air. Threads tightened.

His discipline was mending. He’d known a long time. He’d known, in a way, since the first moment he laid eyes on Eliot Waugh on exam day, laid eyes on him and sensed a fissure calling to him, a crevice that was a million miles deep and barely detectable, both, in Eliot’s beautiful, almost-whole heart. It said: _Here. Mend this._ _Start now._

And so he'd begun.


	3. Wrap me in your marrow, stuff me in your bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of the night, Eliot realizes he forgot something important. The next morning, Quentin proves he has some skin in this game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really plan to make a third chapter, so look at this as a coda of sorts. This may become a place where I put miscellaneous scenes as inspiration strikes. I hope it isn't too goofy at the end . . . I'm open to feedback!

Quentin blinked his eyes once. Two times. _Nope._ That was too much brightness. It was interfering with his soft re-entry into the waking world, the sentient world.

He kept his eyelids closed and poured all of his attention into his other senses, stretching his aching limbs long and slow under softly rustling sheets.

That was the patter of water droplets reaching his hearing, too regular to be rain, too localized. Discrete intermittent splashes and a contented human sigh, amplified by the tile walls of the shower enclosure just beyond the open door to the en suite. If he opened his eyes, he’d see straight through to the steam-fogged glass.

Here was the scent of something earthy and soothing above the comforting notes of burned sage and lingering cologne that were always present in this room. Hot coffee on the bedside table, he hoped.

This was smooth percale cotton beneath him, twisted around his ankles, crumpled into a bunch beneath his elbow. A patch, when he stretched his arm out, warmed more by the late morning sun than by the recent presence of his bedmate. _His bedmate_. He snorted. Where did that word come from?

He sat up and propped himself against the headboard, blinking. There was indeed a mug of coffee on the table nearest him. Still warm. Sugar and milk, the way he liked it. As he sipped it, he scanned the room. His clothes were folded and stacked into a tidy pile on a chair near the door. An invitation to make a clean getaway. An invitation more than a decree. Eliot’s clothes were in their own pile, on his antique dresser. The vest with its mended button was on top.    

Quentin made a mental inventory of his body. He felt like someone had borrowed his body to complete a triathlon. The steamy shower pulled at him. But first . . .

He let his memory float back to a highlights reel: hands, in the night, roaming his body, breath on his neck, a voice waking him. _Q. You awake? This okay?_ He’d savored the blurry feeling of his limbs jumbled with other limbs— _those_ limbs and his, skin all but fused to skin, sharing one temperature. Eliot’s large hands splayed, one spreading fingertips across his collarbones, the other weaving into his hair. Quentin was on his side, Eliot curved around his back, languid, lips pressing questions.

He’d opened his eyes to pitch black darkness, not a single glimmer of ambient light to orient him. Not even the smoke detector’s winking red dot. Not even a hint of moonlight painting the edge of the heavy curtains. No curtains at all. He was totally and completely blind.

_Um, El? What’s happening? Are your eyes open right now?_

And then Eliot’s arms tightened, anchoring him, and the rest of Eliot’s body froze. He felt eyelashes blinking furiously against the back of his neck. _Oh, shit._ _It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m so sorry. Shit, I’m sorry. I’ll break it._

He’d felt Eliot’s hands leave his body, heard the trademark skin-sliding sound of a tut being shaped, and he’d stilled Eliot with his own hands. _Leave it. What is it?_

_Just, you know, light particle entrapment._ _I pre-set it on party nights. Helps me sleep. Forgot I did it and—_

_Shh. I like it. As long as it’s not permanent. I mean if I was struck blind we would figure something out, people do, but. It’s—good._ In the fathomless dark, his own sleep-rough breath seemed to shake the molecules of air. The vibrations of his voice box echoed through his sternum. He’d felt Eliot laughing at him, chest rumbling. He’d smiled and groped for Eliot’s arm, grasping tighter, feeling a sudden stirring in the root of his belly.

_Are we both blind, then?_

Eliot’s answer, breathed into the shell of his ear: _Both._ His voice was all raspy whisper. Then the flat edges of Eliot’s teeth grazed the nape of his neck, nipping. Sparks of pure feeling. The loss of his sense of vision combined with a tug of adrenaline, instantaneous, was turning his whole body into a sensor. He arched like a cat, grinding back against Eliot. Eliot reacted, snakelike, his body one long sinew.

_Oh, Quentin._ He felt the raw edge of excitement in Eliot’s exhalation. Something halting, too.

He’d dropped his head back, searched for Eliot’s face with his own scruffy cheek. _What is it?_

_I’ve never—oh, God. You smell good. I’m usually hungover, so . . . never did this. With someone._

Quentin had groaned at that. He was unmoored in the dark, nothing but feeling and hearing, feeling and hearing nothing but Eliot’s touch, the vibrating strength of his body, the air hot from his lungs. His own staggered breaths and pounding heart.

_This is—I—I feel everything_ , he’d panted. He’d dragged Eliot’s hand down from his sternum, along his abdomen blooming with sweat, to his own ready cock. He’d braced a hand against the headboard for leverage, keeping his back flush against Eliot’s broad chest, keeping his legs coiled like springs wound together with Eliot’s strong legs, both of them thrumming.

For a fleeting moment, he’d anticipated this blind tangle would be a gentle on-ramp to Eliot’s body—an easing in, a welcome break from the onslaught of visual stimulation that had consumed him since forever. Eliot’s eyes alone were an epic ten-part Czech art film.

_Gentle_ was the wrong word.

Thinking back on it now, he recalled hardly even moving, hardly breathing, every available sense on fire and flooding him with feeling. Eliot’s hand around him, torturously slow, strong and assured, Eliot’s mouth against his shoulder, Eliot’s hoarse, groaning mantra. _That’s it. That’s it, now._

He’d felt Eliot’s cock slippery and swollen where the cleft of his ass met the small of his back. He remembered rolling his hips, gasping out: _If you—we can. If you want more_.

Wordless stuttering breaths, and then _: Not like this. I want to be looking at your face when we do that_. He’d fumbled for Eliot’s free hand then, reaching overhead, crushing it tight in his, feeling a tight grasp in return. When he came, it felt like an endless tumbling, syrupy and echoing out of him into the blackout darkness, wringing every part of him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, planted his feet on the clean hardwood, scratched at his chest. Was that party only last night?

This was different from anything he’d expected, when it came to Eliot Waugh. Not that he’d expected anything. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe that was a starting point—a handhold in the sheer rock cliff at the top of which was a prize called _knowing Eliot_. Margo was up there, gleefully not waving. Goddamn it, he wanted to climb.

He topped off his coffee from a thermos carafe that sat next to his cup, and brought it, sipping, into the shower.

#

Eliot’s long, lean body was as easy to appreciate—in the light of day or in deepest darkness. But Quentin was missing Eliot’s face. Eliot turned when he felt the steamy air in the shower change, facing Quentin with a composed, polite grin. Quentin lingered on his face, his eyes, and the grin softened into something warmer.

Quentin held his coffee mug out of the spray and stretched up to kiss Eliot’s slick mouth. “Thanks for this.”

Eliot continued stroking his hands through his own hair, rinsing something out. “It’s amazing what you can get done the morning after, when you don’t drink your way through to the bitter end of a party. I’m considering, you know, recommending it to Todd.”

Quentin laughed. He swilled another gulp of coffee and set the mug down among bottles and jars of store-bought and apothecary-made toiletries. Eliot handed him a plain-looking bar of soap that smelled like herbs and a loamy fall day and whatever the three wise men brought as gift to the newborn Christ. He lathered up his grubbiest areas and then, without overthinking, moved on to soaping Eliot’s chest. A glimmer of surprise washed over Eliot’s face. The muscles of his throat moved, and his lashes flickered once.

“Did you already do this part?”

“Only once.” Eliot shook water out of his eyes with a flick of his head and stepped closer, making it easier for Quentin to reach various crevices and long smooth planes of skin. “I feel like you might not fully be acquainted with my wasteful shower habits.”

Quentin tried feebly to stifle his laugh, then gave up trying. “I’m gonna go ahead and break it to you that your appeal is not based chiefly on your deep commitment to environmentalist practices.”

“You’re funny.”

“I’m not _very_ funny. I can’t put that kind of pressure on myself.”

“No, but you’re a little bit funny.”

Eliot had maneuvered them so Quentin was beneath the shower head, and Quentin found his hair being shampooed. He swallowed and stilled his hands on Eliot’s hips. He wasn’t super sure of his ability to multitask in this specific situation. Not when Eliot’s hands were so fucking _strong_.

“Listen,” Eliot said, scrubbing away at his scalp. “I’m sorry again about the midnight surprise. Not my proudest moment.”

“Mm.” He opened his eyes to see Eliot looking wary, eyebrows crinkling. He really hadn’t minded, but he knew what Eliot meant. Informed consent was a good rule of thumb when it came to magic that affected other people. “Well. You _were_ pretty distracted when you first went to bed. That’s on me.”

A crooked smile crept across Eliot’s face. “I guess it is.”

“Surprise aside, that was intense, I gotta say.”

“Good intense, weird intense, or . . . we’re-magicians, intense-is-what-we-live-for intense?”

“Ten-out-of-ten, would-do-again intense. Not every time, but.” Quentin closed his eyes, hearing what he was saying, knowing how he meant Eliot to hear it.

Eliot smoothed wet hair back from Quentin’s face and kissed each eyelid. “Not every time. Hashtag agree.”

Pushing his luck, Quentin wrapped his arms around Eliot and rested his cheek on Eliot’s squeaky-clean chest. Tentatively, then more assuredly, Eliot circled his own arms around Quentin’s shoulders.

“Tell me the truth. When did you find time to attach my button? Thanks, by the way.”

“Uh. I actually . . . I find it easy to mend things, so. I just did it.”

“With magic? Could that be your discipline—Repair of Small Objects?”

Quentin shrugged. “No one’s said so formally just yet. Could be.”

“It’s more than ceramics and things, you know. Small objects magicians kind of straddle the line between physical kids and healers.” Eliot had a thoughtful look in his eye. He was rubbing circles around Quentin’s shoulder with this thumb.

“I kind of got that sense.”

“Hey.” Eliot cleared his throat. “No pressure, but. I mean, tell me if this is too much too soon. I’m enjoying—whatever this is, and. I don’t want to get out ahead of where your head is in any way, so. Say no, no hurt feelings. But if you don’t think it’s _too_ too much, too fast, I just. What I’m trying to say is . . . would you maybe let me, uh.”

Quentin made a quick judgment, based on the expression of raw, unguarded _want_ that was on Eliot’s face. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever it is, I trust you. So, okay.”

Eliot looked like he’d just been handed the controls to the solar system.

“Quentin. Middle name. Coldwater. You won’t be sorry. I can tell you haven’t done this before, and I’ll try to be as gentle as I can. You’re going to feel so, so good when I’m done. We both are.” Eliot squeezed his shoulder, then pressed a kiss into the white spot left by his thumb. He barked out a truncated laugh. “God, this is going to be sort of gross. And cool. But gross.”

Quentin scratched his chest. “What are we about to do, exactly?”

Eliot reached across him to the shower wall and slid open a narrow cabinet door. There, on a shelf, was an array of full-body exfoliating scrubs and different shapes and sizes of loofahs. “You choose.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] If You Haven't Yet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056181) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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